


Hard Day's Work

by rpfwriters



Category: Actor RPF, American (US) Actor RPF, Arrow (TV 2012) RPF, Real Person Fiction
Genre: F/M, Gen, Kissing, Language, Reader-Insert, Reader-Interactive, Resolved Sexual Tension, Sexual Tension, implied sexual tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-07
Updated: 2019-04-07
Packaged: 2020-01-05 23:53:41
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,307
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18376670
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rpfwriters/pseuds/rpfwriters
Summary: You work as a costume designer for Arrow. One day, your crush on Stephen is revealed.





	Hard Day's Work

If anyone had asked you what you wanted to be when you were growing up, costume designer for one of the CW’s highest rated shows would not have been it. Not that you were complaining, far from it; you loved your job. You were surrounded by a good and fun group of people, and Stephen Amell was smack in the middle of it all.

He  _literally_  welcomed you with open arms your very first day on set, squeezing the breath from your lungs with a, “This is going to be awesome,” huffed into your hair. And he wasn’t wrong. Every day was better than the one before. It didn’t matter if you were up to your eyeballs in green suede and leather, staying up for days on end in order to meet a deadline or repair a key piece of clothing needed for the following day, Stephen made it fun and easy. Well, easier.

Stephen himself was an easy man to be around. He was funny and smart, sarcastic and down-to-earth, charismatic and silly, adventurous and ambitious, considerate and compassionate. And then one day, being around him wasn’t so easy anymore.

Being around close-to-naked individuals was part of your job, and you’d seen Stephen without a shirt on hundreds of times. Pants? Never heard of ‘em. But there was something different about him when he strode into the fitting room, nimble fingers working at the buttons of his shirt, a smirk playing with his lips that made your heart stutter and your mouth go dry.

“Hey, sweetheart,” he purred in his usual teasing manner, tossing the shirt onto the back of a chair. “What’cha got for me today?”

Your eyes settled on the Bratva tattoo that was surrounded by faux scars that he sported on his left pec and you found yourself wanting to trace your fingers over it. Instead of doing just that, you grabbed the roll of yellow measuring tape from your back pocket.

“Just uh, need to check some measurements,” you answered with a forced smile.

Stephen gave a small chuckle. “If you wanted me to take off all my clothes, all you had to do was ask,” he joked, his breath hitting the side of your neck as you leaned in to measure his chest.

You scratched the measurement onto the pad of paper. “Now, take a deep breath and hold it.”

He did as instructed, even going so far as to puff his chest up further. The breath came out of him in a rush when you poked him in the ribs with the end of the pencil.

“Ow,” he protested, rubbing at the light pink spot with his thumb. “That hurt.”

“Oh, please,” you scoffed, moving to measure higher on his chest. “You’ve gotten hit worse than that.”

Stephen flexed his biceps at your instruction. “They’re not the same as a sharp pencil.”

You held it up in front of his face. “That’s not sharp. I can make it sharp if you want me to,” you joked with a wink.

“Never had you pegged for someone that likes to inflict pain,” he hummed.

You rolled your eyes in a futile attempt to ignore the way he was looking at you. “Hold still.”

His eyes stayed glued to you as you moved behind him, rolling the tape across his back. First, you measured his shoulders, then from wrist to wrist, arms spread wide, then down by his sides. Every move you made, Stephen was watching you closely, bottom lip trapped between his teeth, tongue darting out once in a while.

_Jesus, he made it difficult to do your job._

You pulled in a shuddering breath when you measured his wrists and got an up close and personal view of his hands. It wasn’t the first time you’d seen them, so you had no idea why you were suddenly appreciating them so much.

“You alright, sweetheart?” Stephen asked, his voice low, too low.

Without thinking about it, you turned his hand over and traced the inside of his palm and down each finger. You gave a soft hum of an answer, your bottom lip between your teeth, head cocked to the side as images of his hands on your thighs and stomach bombarded your brain.

Stephen said your name just loud enough to yank you back to reality. “Where’d you go?”

“You don’t want to know,” you answered, embarrassment flooding your cheeks.

The hand you just released shot up and curled under your chin before you could turn away. “Tell me.”

For the first time since he entered the room, you met his gaze, and it made your chest ache. You wanted to kiss him, to see if he tasted as good as he smelled. You wanted to grip his shoulders and wrap your legs around his waist, to feel his body curve into yours. You wanted him to taste you, to burn your skin with his whisker-kissed jaw. You wanted  _him_ , and you didn’t how much longer you could keep your resolve.

Unlucky for you, you didn’t have to find out.

“Stephen, come on, man,” David called out, the door shaking under the weight of his fist. “We got that meeting.”

“Gimme a minute,” Stephen shot back, eyes drilling into yours.

You pulled away from Stephen’s touch and turned around, pretending to write something on the paper in front of you. “You should go.”

“I don’t want to,” he admitted, caging you in with his arms as he stood behind you.

“Stephen, please,” you breathed, though you had no idea what you were begging him to do.

The hairs on his chin bit into your shoulder as his nose brushed against your ear. “Tell me.” One of his hands was pushing the hair from your neck exposing the long line of skin he had the urge to lick. “Tell me what you want.”

_Oh, Jesus Christ._

“I… I… I ca- can’t,” you stammered, fingers gripping the edge of the counter. “It’s… it would be… un- unpro- unprofessional.”

Stephen’s chest was to your back, his heart thudding in time with yours. “Tell me,” he implored, lips hovering right above the pulse point in your neck.

You could kiss him, turn your head and capture his full lips in yours, but for some reason, you didn’t want to be the one to make the first move. So, you gripped the edge of the counter, shook your head, and held your breath.

The way he murmured your name sent a wave of goosebumps down your spine. And then his hand was on your neck, turning you toward him, kissing you, teeth nipping at your bottom lip, tongue soothing against the flesh a moment later. You were whimpering as you turned, opening your mouth to him, driving your fingers through his hair, scraping your nails against his skin as his hands roamed heavily over your curves.

Another set of knocks drove the two of you apart. “It’s your ass on the line if you’re late again, Amell,” David called out before striding away from the trailer.

You laughed softly, your nails scraping through Stephen’s beard. “You should probably go.”

“I don’t want to,” he admitted for the second time, tugging on your hips, lifting you to the counter. He kissed you again, slow and sweet, as if he could spend all day standing there, between your thighs, pulling sounds from you that you didn’t know you could make.

You hummed low and skimmed your fingers across his ribs where you knew he was the most ticklish. “There’ll be plenty of time for this later,” you promised him.

After another series of kisses, Stephen maneuvered out from between your legs and grabbed his shirt. “You’re mine in an hour,” he said low in the back of his throat.

“I can’t wait,” you honest-to-god giggled before he disappeared.


End file.
